The Courier's Journey
by ScrimshawPen
Summary: If the quest to uncover the secrets of the Divide was a descent into hell, then the Courier's journey across the country is an escape attempt. Accompanied by a very conflicted Arcade, Megan travels east, looking for a home she doesn't remember. Part III of the Courier series. Post New Vegas, mostly non-canon settings.
1. Prologue: A World Without Limes

The old woman had a plate of vegetables and meat for him. What kind of meat, he didn't want to know, but it smelled good. Problem was, nothing else around him did.

"Thought you might like something to eat, young man. You done a good job here."

Arcade looked up at her, then down at his hands, which were sticky with drying fluids up to the elbows. All morning he'd been out here on his knees with their hosts' one and only female brahmin, trying to coax a breech calf into the world. Two heads made for difficult births at the best of times, and this attempt had seemed doomed to failure. He'd been on the verge of attempting a risky c-section, when it finally turned and slid out. The baby - a heifer - was on the smaller side, but it was already on its feet and nursing. _I guess I could be a veterinarian, if it came to it_, he thought unenthusiastically. _Might as well be a dentist, too. And a barber. Just like in the old West. Yeah. Wouldn't old dad be proud._

He pushed his glasses up his face, repenting of the gesture immediately as he left a tacky smear of blood on his nose.

"Thank you. I need to wash first, but I could eat. I'll come inside in a minute." He paused. "Has _she_ been alright?"

The woman's smile faded. "I put maize in her hands and she shucks it. Ask her to pick beans and she'll do it, like there's nothing in the world but those beans. It's like having one of my grown daughters back in the house to help… only my daughters never held their tongue for a moment. Are you sure you two can't stay a piece with us? I can't imagine what you've been through, with the war behind and all."

Arcade shook his head. Even after all these weeks, he couldn't be sure the Brotherhood had given up their inevitable pursuit. Some days, he thought he'd never stop looking over his shoulder. The last thing he wanted was for these people to suffer for their kindness.

"We have a home out east. Family." In his mouth, it sounded like the lie that it was. You needed faith to make a claim like that, and he had none left.

She shook her head incredulously and returned to the house. He wondered just how flimsy their story seemed to her. He'd kept the details scanty and it wasn't like they were the only strangers on the old highway. The Legion's final push had created a swath of misery as they passed, and many had chosen to leave ahead of their advance, choosing an uncertain, nomadic life over slavery or death. Some of these still hadn't found a new home. Some of them had turned to a raider's methods to survive.

Farmers like this couple - people who still had something to lose - had every right to be suspicious of vagrants. Some had warned them off in no uncertain terms (a drawn shotgun was a very persuasive argument). Most had been kind, however, offering food and lodging in exchange for work. Arcade repaid them to the best of his ability.

With the nearest real settlement several days' travel away, these people didn't have access to any medical care. They made do with what they had - and were, on the whole, healthier than the patients he was used to, the people packed into the slums of outer Vegas. The water was cleaner, the food more abundant out here. Even so, accidents happened. Diseases found their way into homes via the occasional caravan. Little Johnny fell out of the hayloft and his leg healed badly. Infant mortality was horrifically high, as evidenced by all of the tiny gravestones behind the farmhouses.

By early April, he'd already used more than half of the medical supplies they'd brought. He couldn't bring himself to hold anything hostage against the 'what if' of tomorrow. With these he treated - or at least diagnosed - everything from an infected toe to terminal cancer. Not wanting to just give a man a fish, he educated the people who wanted to learn, training them to use what resources they had to the best of their ability. And, just today, he'd taken the first steps toward a promising career in animal midwifery.

He washed his hands with the pump, glad at least that clean water wasn't scarce out here, so far from lingering industrial poisons and heavy radiation. The caustic lye soap they all used stung his hands, leaving them chapped and raw, but it was better than nothing. Waving them dry, he retrieved the Pip-Boy he'd left on top of an empty rain barrel.

_She wouldn't have thought to take it off first_, he mused. _It was a part of her, even if that meant getting it lost inside of a cow's… well, she took it worse places than that_. In Arcade's keeping, the battered old device was clean for once. Working better too. He'd addressed all of the error messages that she had ignored, recalibrated it to take better advantage of the weak satellite support that remained, and used it - along with his maps - to chart a viable path forward, choosing a route that might give them a reliable supply of water.

Of course, it wasn't really his to keep. The 'gift' had been the impulsive act of a person who expected to die. Would he eventually give it back? Yes. Absolutely. _When she asked_. That didn't seem likely in the near future.

He bent his head to enter the low doorway of the farmers' cabin and took a place at the table. He nodded to the master of the house, who grunted in return. His wife was the talkative one of the two, and it was her voice that carried the conversation - or the monologue - on. They'd had a good life out here, she said. Forty years now. Sometimes it seemed a little too crowded nowadays. Their nearest neighbor was only a mile away. But this is where they'd always been. Where they'd buried their sons. God willing, someone would bury them in the same plot when their time came.

When Arcade could finally get a word in edgewise, he asked the question he always asked before moving on.

"What will we find if we keep going east? More neighbors? Another settlement?"

Until now, all of their hosts had offered a ready answer. Not this time. The woman only looked at him sharply. "Nothing, so far as I know. Traders come from that direction, sometimes, and they don't talk about anything much between here and a place they call 'Denver.' She paused. "To tell you the truth, it's been a good long while since we've had anybody from that direction."

"So tonight might be the last time we sleep indoors for a while."

"Might be," she answered evenly. "What do you think of that?"

As if on cue, they both looked at the quietest person at the table, beating out even the taciturn farmer for that distinction. She was eating, slowly and mechanically, not looking at anybody or giving any sign that she was listening to the discussion that concerned her.

"I'm _tired_," Arcade admitted suddenly. "I'm not sure I can take much more of this. Especially if this really is the last house." Traveling alone with a ghost who would not or could not talk made him feel more lonely than actual solitude would have. She followed directions and walked as far as he asked her to, but that was the limit. Any innovating, any planning, was his mental load to bear alone. Never a leader, he missed the stability of his former life; a lifelong hermit, he nevertheless found himself wishing for the sea of acquaintances that Vegas had pressed upon him. Instead, he had only a burden: a young woman he could neither abandon nor forgive.

Standing like a wall between them, a barrier he could never dismiss, was the knowledge of her terrible crime. Sometimes, in fits of impatience and desperation, he threw it at her, intending his words to wound, to provoke an answer. If this had any effect at all, it didn't show. Paradoxically, he actually dreaded the day the shell broke. If she ever woke up from the shock that had locked her in, there'd be hell to pay: guilt she couldn't deny and impossible atonement. And he'd probably still be standing by, barring some incident. He had no idea what he would say or do on that day.

"You could leave her here," the matron suggested, breaking into these thoughts. "I'd take care of her like she's my own, don't you doubt. There's nothing like the peaceful life for healing the problems of the mind. You can… send for her later. When you've reached your home." He could tell by her tone that she considered that highly unlikely.

_Yes_. _Please. Take her. _He kept his voice level. "I can't. It's tempting, but I can't. There might be people coming after us." He hesitated, then confessed, "Soldiers, actually. I didn't tell you everything."

A guarded look came into her eyes. "Not for _her_, certainly. A little thing like that - she's harmless." _But you may not be_ was the clear subtext.

"For both of us," he said firmly. "Believe me."

He fully expected to be kicked out after that, but she didn't say anything except, "Better turn in then, if you mean to get an early start. I'm sorry the loft bed's not near long enough for you." She took a deep breath and seemed to come to some decision. "If someone does come after you've gone, we'll put them off your path, don't you worry."

"Please don't. They've killed for less."

The lines on her face creased as she frowned at him. "Who _are_ you? I'm curious, not angry. You don't _seem_ like criminals."

"If you haven't already, you'll eventually get news of a infamous Courier from Vegas. That's her. I'm just the Courier's accomplice. Not that that isn't bad enough." What she would hear, he had no idea. Nothing could be worse than the truth. "It's complicated. In a way, it's a story that goes back to before I was born. This is just the end of it."

"Not the end," she said firmly. "You're still alive, aren't you? Where there's life, there's hope."

Later, back on the trail, he meditated upon these simple words, wondering if they were true. The farmer's wife - a nice, friendly woman with a nice, friendly name like Sarah or Abigail - was the last person he talked to almost a month. After just a few days into that month, Arcade was talking to himself almost constantly, becoming his own advocate and accuser both.

The missiles had never lit up the sky behind them and Arcade was grateful for this. He didn't think he could have lived with the alternative. He hoped that the Brotherhood had prioritized disarming them over giving pursuit - not for the sake of their escape so much as for the NCR's safety. He still couldn't forgive himself for his actions in the silo, even though doing anything else would have killed him. The selfish part of him kept trying, though.

_You're not that skilled with terminals_, his only conversation partner told him. _What good would it have done?_

_The boys and girls in steel had it sorted - hell, it was their fault for shooting the man who might have stopped it with the push of a button. _

_It's not wrong to want to live. Every animal does. Do you really think you're better than your biology?_

_It wasn't your fault. It was hers._

_Veronica would have killed you both._

Every now and then, he ventured out of his head to throw a new diatribe at the millstone he carried around his neck.

"You really smashed my life to pieces, you know? You were _incredibly _thorough. I couldn't imagine a more systematic disassembling of everything I'd worked toward than your companionship gave me. I still have trouble believing it, and I _lived_ it. You are my worst nightmare incarnate." Anger and frustration - more at himself than at her - made him fractious. "I was a good person, or at least a minimally decent Samaritan. I'd escaped the trap I was born into. Now I've done things I can never take back, things I can't blame my progenitors for. I helped _you_ escape justice, for one."

No answer, not that he'd expected one. With a jerky movement, she threw a stick she'd been holding for the last half hour into the fire.

More calmly, softly now, he conceded the one-way argument - until the next time it arose, at least. "I was older. Between the two of us, I was far more capable of responsibility. I made my own decisions and they led me here. _Excusatio non petita, accusatio manifesta_. You're living that truth. And so am I." Dropping one last armful of brush on the fire, he crawled into his bed roll. "On that happy note, go to sleep."

He didn't bother to make sure she did. If she wanted to keep watch, great; if not, he didn't care. If something surprised and killed them in the night, so be it. He couldn't very well stay awake for the next six months. Anyway, they only had the one weapon between them, and he wasn't giving it to her… though, sometimes, he wondered if he should. Maybe then his problem would solve itself.

_That's a dark thought. More proof that my supposed virtue was never meant for extenuating circumstances. And aren't those the real test?_

o - o - o - o - o

Another day, another long hike over terrain that changed only subtly as the miles stretched behind them. Gentle rains brought a transient spring to the desert, one that swiftly turned to summer, the brassy sun withering the leaves and flowers that had sprung into fleeting life. While they lasted, they painted the desert an unlikely green, giving his eyes a brief respite from the ugliness all around. This rebirth was there one day and gone the next, and with it the last of the cool weather.

With no more hospitable hearths to break the journey into pieces, Arcade lost track of the days and the miles. He kept an eye on the compass - a survival guide had once told him it was easy to walk in circles when the scenery never changed - but ignored the date. He knew approximately where they were in Utah. He didn't know how many miles they walked every day, but didn't find it significant enough to calculate. By a mixture of chance and design, he found enough water to keep them alive, though only just. He was always fair in its division, though he resented the portion he gave her; she always partook and never helped. It grated on a man.

Food was a constant problem. No great Nimrod he, Arcade struggled to get close enough to the graceful, long-legged ungulates that had recolonized the plains in humanity's absence. He didn't bother to try for the jackrabbits. Even a successful hunt didn't always yield good results: at random intervals, his plasma defender reduced their dinner to completely inedible greenish slop. Such an event was enough to bring him to the edge of despair. Not that he was ever far away.

A few weeks into the neverending sea of sparse grasses, there arose another, very pressing problem, one he hadn't adequately prepared for in his packing: man cannot live on meat alone. Yes, they ate such plants as he knew to be safe, but these weren't enough and weren't the right sort; fatigue that went beyond simple travel weariness weighed on him and there was a stiffness in his joints that was more than just a sign of age.

"Scurvy," he announced one morning over a breakfast of dubious meat from the night before. "And us a thousand miles from the nearest ocean. Should have brought some limes, eh?"

She looked up at him then, almost hopefully. Her face was badly sunburned, nose peeling; she'd lost her hat somewhere two weeks before, and the jury-rigged sunshade he'd fashioned kept slipping off. It _was_ a response, the first meaningful one he'd seen in days, but it didn't encourage him. Instead, he became angry.

"No, we don't have any limes! They don't exist anymore. Just like your vault. And we're going to die before we reach Colorado, well short of our nonexistent destination."

She sighed and looked away, but this didn't defuse the fury he'd opened the door to.

"'Tell me about the rabbits,' Arcade said mockingly, echoing her long-ago request. 'Tell me how it's going to be when we're living off the fat of the land.' Well, this is it. The rabbits are too fast and the land is too lean. You're a perfect stand-in for Lennie, but I missed my chance to play George. Did you even know how that story ends when you invoked it?"

The blank look she gave him was reproachful and Arcade felt an unexpected pang of remorse. "I'm being cruel," he said, not without shame. "I thought I was better than that. I'm not. It's good to know that about myself, I suppose." Standing, he kicked dirt on their fire. "Nothing to do but move on. Maybe we'll… well, maybe it…" He stopped. There was no point in finishing the sentence, was there? He wasn't going to convince anybody, not even himself.

o - o - o - o - o

A hundred miles or more short of the state border, the food ran out. The antelope were gone, off in search of greener pastures. A day after that, the water dried up. The rivers marked on his map had disappeared, or - more likely - the navigation system on the Pip-Boy was way off. He rationed out the last canteen as slowly as possible, even though he knew that wasn't what the survival guides recommended: you were supposed to drink all of the water you had while you looked for more. Well, he didn't believe that there _was_ more to be found, so this had to last.

When they were down to the dregs, he divided it scrupulously between them, not allotting himself a single drop more than her. He regretted this generosity almost immediately, when his portion only whetted his thirst. _I'm bigger. I need more than she does. How dare she accept it, after all I've done for her? She should have handed it back_.

He was too exhausted to express his resentment, however, and too dizzy to make a belated argument for his greater claim. Besides, he was pretty sure talking made you dehydrate faster. Breathing, too. You exhale a lot of water. He made the decision to breathe less, but stopped when black dots started to creep into his vision.

There was a dark ridge of mountains ahead, a line of teeth breaking up the maddening sameness of the plains. It was hard to imagine reaching them under current conditions, but equally hard to accept that it wasn't the solution to their problem. Arcade told himself there was snowmelt trickling down the slopes, ice cold water collecting in little depressions among the rocks. He could already see it, smell it, _taste_ it, even before they were near enough to make out the discrete slopes and elevations.

Night came and went. For once, they didn't stop. The coolness it afforded outweighed any fear of what dangers crouched in the dark. When morning dawned and illuminated their path, the mountains were in striking distance. Maybe.

Mounting the foothills leading up to the cliff required superhuman effort and got harder the closer they got, as it became more and more obvious that there wasn't an oasis at the end of the rainbow. A cleft in the rock ahead might shelter them at least, even from the noonday sun, thus allowing them to die in relative comfort.

Better than a cleft, there was a cave. A grim guide pointed the way for them: perhaps fifty feet from the entrance, the long-dead corpse of a man wearing the bleached remains of Legion red was lying face down, his arms stretched out in front of him. Arcade passed the body indifferently, not caring in the slightest for the story it suggested.

They entered the cave - and it _was_ a proper cave, not just a niche in the rock. The ceiling was too low for him to stand straight, but it was ready sanctuary from the merciless heat. Not that it really mattered. They would die fast out there and slow in here. A cool breeze came from the inner chambers, like an exhale from the earth. _Wind_, he thought. _That should mean something to me_, _but it doesn't._ He dropped to the uneven floor and rolled on his back, panting as his heart tried to compensate. His companion hesitated at the mouth of the cave, a black outline against the sky.

"You can keeping trying, if you want. Explore. Die here or somewhere else. It's the same end, no matter what. I give up." Arcade wasn't at all sure he had said this out loud. He swiped a hand over his forehead in an automatic gesture, but there was no sweat to wipe away. A bad sign. He closed his eyes. The thirst was terrible, such that it crowded out any need for food he might otherwise have felt. He'd known hunger as a child, despite his mother's best efforts. Water had been precious in the crowded city where he'd spent his boyhood, and he _had_ been thirsty sometimes… or, at least, he'd thought so at the time. He'd been wrong. _This_ was thirst. How many patients had he seen dying of dehydration and heat exhaustion, baked red by the sun? Rich with privilege, he'd never known exactly how they felt near the end.

_Three minutes without air. Three days without water. Three weeks without food_. _Lovely_. _I know approximately how much longer this will take._

It didn't _have_ to last three days, he knew. He could choose at any time, so long as he acted while he was still conscious. In the meantime, however, he'd work on retrieving the stoicism that had abandoned him so many months before. Stiff upper lip and all that. This effort lasted all of five minutes before he fell into an exhausted sleep.

o - o - o - o - o

It was raining. Impossible. It never rained in Vegas… or in Navarro… or wherever he was now. But it was undeniable. It speckled his glasses, ran down his cheeks, and dripped onto his tongue. Unconsciously, he swallowed, a painful effort, and opened eyes that were almost sealed shut.

She had a canteen in her hand, as improbable as that seemed. He heard a sloshing sound inside as she tilted it once more over his head.

"No," he tried to say.

Looking down at him, she stopped and moved out of sight for a second. He heard the sound of gurgling water. Then she returned with one of their tin cups, only half full, and held it out to him.

Confusion turned into anger at her selfishness - she had a whole canteen, and he only got a few ounces? He grabbed for the cup and got most of it in his mouth. It was sweet and salty and tasted very strongly of metal, but it was the most delicious drink he'd ever had. It wasn't nearly enough, though. Everything in him demanded more, but more wasn't forthcoming

"Please," he begged.

She watched him cautiously, capping the canteen and setting it down out of his reach. He made a clumsy lunge for it and she evaded him effortlessly, carrying it to the opposite side of the cave.

He lapsed into torpor again, puzzled and sad. One thought consumed his mind. _Water. There's water. A few feet away. _It might as well have been miles. Was this retribution for something he'd done? Something he'd said?

Some time later - somewhere between a few minutes and a few hours - she crept near again, carrying another scant portion. Things went on in this vein for an indeterminate period. At some point, he must have slept: he saw the sky outside the cave turn dark and then, without warning, it was light again. She kept coming back, only now she brought a full cup every time. At long last, he understood and wondered how he had forgotten his own lectures.

_That was… smart._ _She actually remembered_. A lifetime ago, a year and a half ago, they'd been in a stifling tent in Freeside, looking down at yet another beggar who'd dropped in his tracks, unable to afford a turn at the King's pump. The Legion had been abroad in force back then, amassed on the other side of the Dam, but it had still been a happier time for the two of them. He hadn't _known_ and neither had she.

_We don't have IV fluids most of the time, so we have to make do. It's dangerous to make an unconscious person drink. Moisten their lips, tongue, and gums to stimulate swallowing. Hopefully, they'll wake up enough to sip. This man isn't too far gone, not compared to some you'll see here. Help me prop him up. Nice and slow, see? Don't give them a whole lot at first, especially not pure water. Mix in some sugar and salt first. I always keep some in my kit._

He sat up slowly and tried a smile. It felt strange on his face and made his lips crack. "I understand. It's okay now, though. You did right. I can't believe I'm saying this after the last few months, but good job."

Her expression didn't change in the slightest. Crouching down beside him, she handed the canteen over. He realized from the weight that it was almost empty.

"Tell me there's more where this came from."

A barely perceptible nod. He took that as an invitation to drain it.

"Any food?" he asked doubtfully, after a long silence.

She shrunk into herself, shoulders hunched. He took that as a 'no'.

"Not to worry, we have a couple more weeks on that count. Not _good_ weeks, mind you, but we do have half a chance now. Can you show me where you found this?"

She picked up the lantern and walked deeper into the cave. He followed, testing rubbery legs cautiously. If there _wasn't_ food somewhere near, they'd be in trouble before too much longer, but it was hard to feel pessimistic about that now. Where there was water, there was life. That was a basic truth.

The farther they went, the easier their path became. Wide and level, with a smooth ceiling, it was looking more and more like a man-made tunnel than a natural cave. They turned a corner and that's when he saw the spigot mounted on the wall, fed by a pipe that disappeared into a hole in the wall. The ground beneath it was damp and mossy.

The handle was rusty and so was the water - brownish-red by the light of the lantern. He hesitated, but only for a second. It hadn't made them sick yet, and it wasn't like they had a better option. He drank deeply and almost vomited, then tried again, more slowly. He sat down against the wall, mentally gauging how much further he could walk. Not far. Now that he wasn't thirsty anymore, he had the luxury to appreciate his atrocious headache. She sat down and waited, hugging herself against the chill.

Eventually, his mind caught up with the possible implications of this discovery. "Have you seen any signs of living people? Explored this tunnel to the end?"

Shaking her head, she rose and lifted the lantern as if to scout ahead. She jerked her chin forward, indicating that they should go. Arcade forced himself to his feet again, if only so he wouldn't be left alone in the dark.

From that point onward, it sloped consistently downward. There were lights mounted to the walls and ceiling now, albeit none that were working. A helpful and unexpected handrail helped them to keep their footing as they descended a particularly steep incline. Just as Arcade was about to plead for another rest, or to suggest that they return to the packs they'd abandoned, they reached a steel door. Above it, a sign read 'EXIT' in big, red letters.

The hinges were stiff and the door was heavy, but it wasn't difficult for their combined strength to pull it open. A rush of sunlight, bright and unexpected, made Arcade shield his face - he'd left his hat back at base camp, of course. Even as his vision adjusted, he had to rub his eyes to be sure of what he was seeing.

"This… this I didn't expect." Standing uncertainly in the threshold, frozen in indecision, he noticed that his companion was once again looking to him for guidance, her own initiative spent.

_Fair enough_, he sighed. A steel staircase led downward, mounted to the cliff wall from which they had emerged. He decided it would probably hold their weight. Setting his foot on the top step, he beckoned for her to follow.

"Let's go, Megan."


	2. Summer I: Back to the Garden

_This is better than I expected_.

She approved.

o - o - o - o - o

_I'm dead_. _Or dying. At least this is an interesting delusion to go out on._

This was the thought running through Arcade's mind, over and over again, as he descended the rickety metal staircase that seemed attached to the cliffside by a combination of faith and rust. Some of the bolts had worked free from the weathered rock face and he tried unsuccessfully to ignore these. Twice, he hissed at his companion not to walk so _heavily_, though the much-abused rational part of him knew that if anyone were to cause their doom at this juncture, it would be him and his much greater weight.

Despite these distractions, he noticed that the cliffs were actually the sides of great mesas, the tops of which he could just make out from his vantage point. They cradled the valley below, forming a preserve that seemed untouched by the ravages of the centuries. This bowl-like sanctuary went on, curving out of sight and disappearing into a fuzzy green smudge that suggested water in abundance, but what interested him most was the relatively arid plain below. Or, rather, the structures that populated it.

He set foot on solid ground with a tired sigh of relief, throwing one last, lingering look toward the door high above, now out of sight. A treacherous climb and a long, dark tunnel now lay between them and all of their supplies. He didn't know if even the retrieval of his fathers' books could persuade him to return to the distant cave where he'd almost died. An unpleasant thought occurred to him then and his hand flew to the holster on his hip. Empty. Their only weapon was far out of reach and that was a death sentence in the Wastes.

_Megan will go back if I ask her_, he observed reluctantly to himself. _She trusts me. She won't think of the danger_. _Two or three trips and we'd have everything._ He hated himself a little for entertaining the thought.

A stone's throw from where he stood was the nearest of at least a hundred structures of varying sizes: houses, stores, a tall-steepled church with faded white paint, and a railway station whose train was long overdue. Irregular polygons, corrals that held no animals, extended the borders of the town on every side, the split-rail fence parting to allow an open path for their entrance. They had no choice but to accept the invitation.

It didn't belong here. It made no sense. The town could have been an abandoned movie set, plucked out of any Pre-War Western, of which Arcade had seen a few in his youth. All it lacked was the colorful cast of thousands: women wearing flour-sack skirts, bow-legged men hitching their horses, children chasing chickens through the dust, and harlots lounging above the saloon, all window dressing for the climactic duel on Main Street.

_At least there won't be a shoot-out_, he thought vaguely. _No white hats here. No black hats either. Just us, whatever we are now_. Their own clothes - and faces, and hair - were a uniform grayish-brown with the caked-on filth of the miles. Arcade doubted that his own mother would have recognized him at the moment and the two of them wouldn't have been welcome even in the Atomic Wrangler by this point. The bouncer would have shown them the door for the smell alone. There was no one around to judge them for this, however. The world around them was perfectly silent, disturbed only by their own breath and movement.

"For a ghost town, it's in remarkably good shape, wouldn't you say?" he murmured. Megan didn't answer, of course, but even she was interested, almost hypervigilant, studying the vantage points on the rooftops and peering into the shadows between buildings they passed.

"I need a rest," he announced when they drew abreast of the building that proclaimed itself a general store. This was true. His joints had gone cold and weak and he was afraid of dropping in the middle of the street. "Let's go inside one of these buildings." There was a sharp intake of air as Megan grabbed his arm, hard enough to hurt. Shaking her off with some irritation, he froze when he saw what she was pointing at.

There were footprints in the dust. Recent ones, showing little sign of erosion. Even as he watched, however, a hot wind swept across the street and filled the depressions slightly, blurring the edges. In an hour, they'd be gone. He'd been trampling them without noticing. Slender and small, they were those of a woman or a child and they led… forward. Down the street and around the corner.

"Huh." He didn't have any capacity left for fear, surprise, or interest, but did his best to keep up as his companion stalked a parallel trail, leaving her own rough prints behind, for all the world like a huntress seeking her prey.

Arcade saw it then; he would have seen it sooner had he not been so beaten, physically and mentally. _Something changed back in that cave. I faltered. She stepped into the gap and she hasn't retreated. That's… a good sign. I think._ He pondered this dimly, trudging along behind the dual paths, studying Megan's heels. Recovery had always been the goal. He needed someone to share the load, needed someone to talk to or he'd go insane. He just didn't want that person to be the one he'd glimpsed in Hopeville. This useless worry boiled away as the breeze stilled for a moment and the full impact of the heat struck him.

Dizzy, he didn't notice that his guide had stopped, and he walked directly into her, almost knocking her down. She hissed at him between her teeth, but let him stabilize himself on her shoulder.

"I really can't go on," he pleaded, apologetic without knowing why.

An unfamiliar voice answered him, "You don't have to."

Arcade jumped, surprise jolting him out of his stupor, reaching for a weapon that wasn't there. Eyes downcast, he hadn't noticed the only splash of color in town. The house they stood in front of was no less gray and weathered than the other buildings, but the garden in front of it was a riot of life. Roses climbed the pillars of a wraparound porch and large, fragrant white flowers grew on dark green bushes that rose almost to the level of the railings. These wonders were nothing beside the improbability of the speaker, however.

A plain woman in her early thirties, her youth slightly faded, she nevertheless had the vibrant look of sturdy health that he'd come to associate with the farming communities untouched by the NCR and its troubles. She wore a sun-bleached blue dress, the length of the skirt and the sleeves too long for the heat, and loose blonde hair fell past her shoulders. More important than her looks, she was a _human being_, the first stranger he'd met in over a month. One who could _speak_.

Megan didn't wait for an invitation, but crossed the yard with characteristic directness, carelessly crushing a delicate flower underfoot, the wooden steps creaking under her boots. Afraid that she would either attack the woman or that the woman would attack _her_, Arcade stood dumbly in his place, unable to muster so much as an intelligible greeting or a warning. His fears were unfounded. The two women exchanged subtle gestures of introduction, any words inaudible to him, and Megan sat down on the porch swing, her back to the street.

The woman beckoned to him, smiling. "Come on up. You're right on time. I'm Dolores."

o - o - o - o - o

It was good to sit in the shade with nothing to do and nowhere to go. Arcade thought he could happily exist here forever in his semi-somnolent state. The wicker chair beneath him was the most tactile thing he'd ever touched and he couldn't help but trace the woven designs with trembling fingers. He wondered if he was going insane. He had as yet summoned no appropriate verbal response and he worried vaguely that he was being rude.

Dolores had disappeared without another word into the house and he and Megan now sat across from one another. She avoided his eyes, stabbing at the floor with her toes to make the swing move, bumping into the table between them when she pushed too hard.

"Stop that."

She gave him a weary look, but pulled her legs up to sit cross-legged. As if determined to vex him, she began humming to herself. He recognized the tune as "Jingle, Jangle, Jingle" - his least favorite song in Mr. New Vegas' line-up - and was about to snap at her again before he realized how unusual it was. Once upon a better time, she'd done it to annoy him. How long had it been? Not since their last days in Westside. He pushed away another nagging concern and held his tongue.

Soft steps marked Dolores' return. She carried a tray with two mismatched pint jars and a large plate. The jars held an amber liquid, cubes that clinked with movement, and a wedge of pulpy, green fruit stuck on the rim. She set the offerings before them and withdrew to a rocking chair, hands folded, observing them serenely. Arcade touched the glass in front of him to see if it was real. His fingers came away wet with condensation.

Megan ignored the tea. Quick as a snake, she snatched something off the platter.

Before Arcade knew what he was saying, he snapped out a command at her: "_Don't eat that!_"

Surprised into obedience, she spat it out into her hand, the half-masticated slice of pomegranate resembling a bloody smile.

"It might… you can't… I mean, don't eat the rind," he said weakly. She stuffed it whole back into her mouth, chewing the tough skin determinedly, and went on plundering the feast with an intensity born of starvation, grabbing items indiscriminately. Arcade's mind was somewhere else, once again stuck in the certainty that this was a trick of his dying consciousness. On the other hand, there was an outside chance this was real. Embarrassment made him color and he turned back to his hostess, groping desperately for a morsel of his old dignity. "Excuse me. I've been under a great deal of stress. I was thinking of a different... story."

The Circian smile widened as if she knew exactly what he was thinking. "Eat. It's not enchanted."

_That's exactly what an enchantress would say!_ he thought wildly. At that point, he realized that he didn't care. There were fruits here that he didn't recognize, neither from life experience nor from pictures, and he decided they were worth the loss of his soul. The piece of apple he reached for was almost too much for his deprived senses. Had he ever tasted one before? Once, he decided. Exactly once. Back in his student days, at the invitation of a wealthier classmate. This was nothing like that. The rush of sweetness, not to mention actually having food in his mouth brought tears to his eyes. Savoring the experience cost him, however. Before he'd finished the slice, the plate was half-empty.

"Take it easy," he warned Megan. "Actually, just stop there." He didn't blame her for gorging; now that he'd started, his watering mouth wanted him to do the same. It'd be a bad idea, though, after a week of little or nothing.

Defiantly, she ate the last of an orange slice, peel and all, then sat back, arms crossed, eyeing the rest of the fruit like a hawk, eyes darting between it and him.

Arcade reached for a red globe speckled with seeds - a strawberry, he thought - but grudging politeness (_extremely_ grudging) stalled his hand for a second.

"Did you want some?" At least that's what he tried to say. His mouth was full. The strawberry had found its way there despite his faltering attempt at self-control. He chewed and swallowed it quickly. "I'm sorry for her… our… manners. It's been a very long time since we had a real meal. Too long."

"You're company. It's all for you," Dolores said graciously. "I saw you coming, made it up fresh."

Arcade considered following up on _that_, but thought better of it. _Don't ask questions_. _That's when it all disappears into the mist. Why, oh why am I stuck on fairy tales?_ He finished the remainder, forcing himself to eat slowly. It more than filled his shrunken stomach; he had no idea how Megan had managed so much. The tea helped it to go down, though the chips of ice hurt his throat. _Ice. Imagine that._

Beyond the curious bubble of the porch, there was birdsong where before there had been silence, bees were buzzing among the flowers, and his hostess' mysterious smile no longer conjured up childish fears. With a sideways pang of affection, he noticed that Megan had gone to sleep, peacefully curled up on the porch swing, rocking gently in the breeze. Warm and comfortable, full of fruit and benevolent feelings, he thought he could do the same. The dream - the water, the adventure, the meal - had been a welcome reprieve from whatever fate awaited him. He could accept what happened next.

Dolores stood up and extended a hand to him. "Got a couple cots set up in the dogtrot. Coolest place in the house this time of day. Rest's what you need now."

"Thanks." His tongue felt heavy in his mouth and the rest of him was slow and leaden. Luckily, his host was very strong for her size. She almost carried him the last ten feet.

"Don't worry, Arcade. You're home now."

There was something odd about this reassuring commonplace - a couple of things, actually - but he couldn't put his finger on what before sleep overtook him.

o - o - o - o - o

Waking put to bed any delusions about hallucinations or castles in the air. No dream or afterlife could hurt this much; his headache alone was bad enough and the rest of him hadn't recovered from his recent trials. His pocket-sized first-aid kit - the only medical supplies he'd brought down from the mountain - contained two of the Followers' powdery aspirin tabs. He swallowed them with a swig of the warm, rusty water out of the canteen Dolores had left beside the cot and waited. He could hear sounds from the other side of the wall, but pain trumped curiosity for the time being.

Thirty dozy minutes later, Arcade ventured into a sunny little kitchen looking out upon the porch where they'd eaten the previous day. Megan was seated at a table, industriously working through the remnants of a large breakfast. A covered plate and a second place setting lay in front of one of the other chairs.

She gave him a subtle salute with her fork without looking up from her plate. Her clothes were as filthy as ever, but he noticed that her face and hands were clean, her hair damp.

"Did Dolores cook that?"

A shrug was his only answer. Long experience had taught him that this could mean one of several things: she didn't know, didn't care, or didn't feel like obliging him at the moment. Or she couldn't explain with wordless gestures. He tried again.

"Where did you find water to wash with? And a… bathroom?"

She stabbed the fork vaguely over her shoulder.

Biting back a sharp word, he turned away, knowing he'd have to figure out the details himself. Before he reached the threshold, another question occurred to him.

"Have you seen _her_ this morning? Learned anything that makes sense of this?" He didn't know what he expected. A detailed chronicle of her morning?

She finally stopped eating and looked up at him seriously, apprehension plainly visible. She nodded slowly. Swallowing a bite, she opened her mouth as if she _wanted_ to say something, then closed it again as a painful expression flitted across her face. Something closed off in her eyes and she turned back to the task at hand, dismissing him with a curt wave.

Behind the house, he found a rain barrel and enjoyed his first real wash in weeks. By the time he finished, his shirt and cuffs were soaked and his glasses were speckled with drops, but there was no one to see. Sure enough, there _was_ an outhouse, of such a stereotypical appearance as to be ridiculous, half-moon peephole and all. It was fully functional, though. Much refreshed, he returned to the table.

Even cold, the breakfast was as good as it was extravagant. There were light, fluffy pancakes, syrup long since soaked into them, yellow-white eggs (not from a lizard, a cazador, or a deathclaw), several crisp slices of bacon, half a peach, and a glass of milk. It was quite possibly the best meal he'd ever eaten, and he took his time with it.

At last, uncomfortably full - and slightly queasy - Arcade pushed back from the table. Megan had been staring him down for the last half hour, waiting to get down to business. He sighed and began.

"I'm as idealistic as the next person - or, at least, I used to be - but I wasn't born yesterday. Almost no one does _this_ for strangers without expecting something in return. We need to be on our guard until we know more. Don't let them split us up. Be polite, be grateful, but don't put your name to anything you haven't read." He paused. "So to speak."

She nodded, a crooked smile twisting her lips.

"I move that we venture out. See what we missed yesterday." _Which was apparently a whole lot_. "Yesterday, she invited us to make ourselves at home. I don't think we'd be violating that hospitality by exploring."

Megan tapped the side of her boot impatiently, indicating that _she_ was ready. By the time Arcade was himself shod, she was waiting by the gate outside, petting a scruffy dog, black and white with curly fur. As he approached, it took off at an easy lope and they followed with a light step, unencumbered by anything but the clothes on their backs.

Arcade found that he was actually cheerful - and why shouldn't he be? Entirely by accident, they'd found paradise, guarded by a generous angel _sans_ flaming sword; Hopeville was so very, very far away, a distant part of a hellish nightmare. For now, it could stay back there.

The dog led them out of town, toward a grove of trees - the tallest he'd ever seen - and Arcade wasn't particularly surprised to find another house, almost identical to the one they'd spent the night in. Beside it was a small barn, its red paint peeling, but all the more charming for it. There was even a tire swing hanging from a large oak between the buildings to complete the effect. A more idyllic picture he'd never seen. He was instantly on his guard.

The door to the house opened and Dolores stepped out to meet them. Today, her hair was tied up in a red cloth and she wore an apron over her dress. She knelt to greet the dog, which frolicked in front of her, then stood and wiped her hands on her skirts.

"Morning! I've been cleaning this place up for your stay. Brought a couple friends of mine over here, thought you'd like to make their acquaintance." She nodded toward the barn.

An old man, gnarled and stooped, hobbled out, leading a large, gray animal by a rope. It took a second for Arcade to connect abstract knowledge to reality. A _horse_. He had never expected to see one. The two of them stopped in the shade of the oak, both looking to Dolores as if for a signal.

Arcade couldn't help but voice his surprise. It was hardly an appropriate greeting, but he couldn't help it.

"I've always believed they were extinct."

"Not in Sweetwater. Here the past is frozen in amber." She reached into her apron pocket. "Would you like to feed Flicka a carrot?" This last was addressed to Megan, who accepted the vegetable and approached the mare with the treat.

Arcade stood beside the woman for a minute, watching Megan circle the big animal reverently, leaning on its side, running her fingers through its mane, and stroking the pink nose. She was just tall enough to see over its back. She accepted a comb from the man and began grooming the horse.

He broke the silence. "You should know that she can't talk. She isn't being standoffish."

Dolores laughed. "Then they'll be fast friends. As it happens, Hannity's as deaf as a post. He knows everything there is to know about caring for animals, though."

"My name is Arcade Gannon," he said at last. "That's Megan. I'm not sure what last name she'd claim at the moment. We're travelers from… west of here. New Vegas, if you know where that is." He swallowed. "I don't have the words to express my gratitude. You saved our lives. If there's any way I can repay your hospitality, I will."

She flushed with embarrassment. Or anger. Without knowing her, he couldn't tell. "We never accept payment from guests. It's the first tenet in our town charter. As I said, you're welcome. Leave tomorrow or stay forever. This house is yours for as long as you're here. There's work of all kinds if you want it, but it's not necessary to earn your keep. We have resources to spare and more."

"It _is_ necessary for me." His own vehemence surprised him and he hastened to backpedal. "I'm sorry, I just meant that I need to be busy. Useful. I can't be idle for long." _I need to be needed_, he added silently.

"I understand that more than you could possibly imagine," she said, just as forcefully. Tense features softened and she spoke again. "Will you walk with me?" When Arcade hesitated, she added, "I spoke with Megan while you were still asleep. Showed her the town and explained the terms of our arrangement. It's your turn." She spoke with an air of command that didn't expect to be refused.

Hiding his surprise, he fumbled for a good reason to decline. He settled on a true statement. "I should stay here. She's uncomfortable around men she doesn't know."

"Hannity is harmless and your companion is much stronger than you realize, if you'll only give her a chance. She'll be riding in half an hour. Just wait and see."

Arcade shot one more uncertain look over at Megan, who was crouching and holding the horse's hoof up while the old man cleaned it with something. He decided she was probably capable to the situation... more than he would be, actually, if it came to violence. Anyway, if they'd been taken in by a tribe of cannibals, then they were dead already. He accepted Dolores' invitation and the two of them set off down the path back into town.

He tried to explain his problem in as little detail as possible. "I've been her protector for a long time now… when she needs protection, which is often. It's a responsibility I accepted without knowing near enough, but it's still hard to walk away from, no matter what's happened. A lot _has_ happened in the last six months and we've been on our own for most of it."

"That can't have been easy for such a long journey," she said thoughtfully. "With only your own thoughts for company."

He tried unsuccessfully to keep his voice light, even though the simple statement threatened to unleash a torrent of frustrations. "That's the understatement of the _century_. It's a weight off of my chest just to talk about it. I've had no confessor at all since it happened. To tell you the truth, I've… I've almost abandoned her. More than once. But I need her as much as she needs me, more's the pity." He laughed bitterly. "We're quite a pair, she and I. _Caveat mundus_. Let the world beware." He groaned and bit his tongue to stop himself. "Sorry. This isn't like me. I used to pride myself in my control."

Dolores frowned, but didn't say anything. Anxious to cover his shame, Arcade swung abruptly into a more neutral subject. "How many people live in Sweetwater? It seemed abandoned yesterday."

She didn't reply at first, but whistled for the dog, who'd taken off into the tall grass after some small animal. "About three hundred in the town proper, and about that number spread out on ranches further afield. I told them all to lie low until further notice. I wanted to learn for myself what kind of visitors you were. We've had some find our valley who tried to injure us or steal what we freely offered. They discovered quickly that these people are under _my_ protection. As mayor, I take the weight of that responsibility very seriously."

Arcade heard the veiled threat in her tone, but wondered privately what one, unarmed woman would do in the face of brigands. Or, God forbid, a roving, dispossessed Legion band. He decided it was best not to ask.

Looking straight ahead, she reached into her other pocket - the one not stuffed with carrots - and pulled out his plasma defender. Before he'd had time to be afraid, she handed it to him, grip first. He accepted it dumbly, automatically checking to see if it was still loaded. It was.

"I had someone retrieve your belongings from the entrance last night. You'll find them in your rooms." Her voice had gone cold, almost mechanical. "We have guns of our own here, but your weapon doesn't look like anything to me. My people will not understand it either. Please keep it hidden."

He holstered it and pulled the tail of his shirt out to hide it. Defensive, he tried to explain why he'd brought an energy weapon to the Old West. "It was my father's. He was a soldier, but I'm a doctor; I'm not a violent man." Veronica's face swam before his eyes and he blinked it away furiously. "Except in extreme circumstances. We've just left a lawless _war zone_. It's kill or be killed out there. Maybe that's hard for you to understand, living in safety." He found himself growing angry for no reason and tried again to rein in his emotions. He was more successful this time. "All I ask is that you don't judge me by this."

She sighed. "I know there are reasons to have weapons like that… _out there_. I know about the Great War from our visitors and I don't doubt there have been many little wars since. I only ask that you not bring them here. We've been sheltered and I want to keep things that way. Your horror stories. Your _artifacts_." She looked pointedly at the Pip-Boy. "They don't fit into our lives."

She stepped deliberately forward, staring at something only she could see, somehow reminding Arcade of a general surveying the lay of a battlefield. "It's not 2283 in here, Dr. Gannon. It's closer to 1883 and I won't have it any other way."

A strange condition, he thought, but Arcade wasn't in a position to judge or contest it. Who wouldn't want to live in such a world, far away from the nuclear age that had brought their species to ruins? A little willful ignorance was a small price to pay for sanctuary. He unclasped the device and stored that away as well. It felt good to lose the weight and let the breeze dry the sweat on his chafed wrist. "Please call me Arcade. You have my word that I won't trouble your people with wars and rumors of wars." Curiosity pushed him to ask the question he'd been sitting on since he first saw the town. "How long have you been here? Not four centuries, surely?"

"Me? Or the town?" She smiled broadly, sharing his joke. "Two hundred and sixty-five years. Give or take a few months. Like I said, we're very well-preserved."

o - o - o - o - o

Dolores had said the mare's name was Flicka, but Megan knew better. She would have recognized Grandma in any form.

o - o - o - o - o

_Coffee. The roasted berries of genus _Coffea_. Native to Africa, it is _(was) _widely cultivated in the equatorial regions. Oh, and it's still freely available in one town in eastern Utah..._

Arcade sipped the bitter beverage appreciatively. It tasted better with milk and sugar, but he'd found he preferred it black. Other than the occasional Nuka-Cola and a bit of scavenged Old World tea, he'd never had the chance to partake much of caffeine. He'd become a fan of the mild stimulant very quickly and now began each day with half a pot. He wondered idly how difficult it would be to leave it behind upon their eventual departure.

_I should cut back. Summer's more than half over and we _have _to cross the Rocky Mountains before cold weather hits… or spend the winter here. Which wouldn't be the end of the world._

He poured himself another cup. It was hard to worry overmuch about anything in Sweetwater. June and July had come and gone. It was early-to-mid August, he thought, though he didn't care to dig the Pip-Boy out of his bureau to check. One day bled into the next and he enjoyed living in comfort too much to raise the question of leaving. Not just yet.

Beside him on the porch was a short stack of books, as yet unread, borrowed from the handful of intellectuals in town, those being the preacher, the doctor, and Dolores herself. He grimaced. This was the one sticky spot in his contentment: he had no true peers among these people. Not only was he forbidden to talk about his life with anybody except Dolores, but there was no one he could begin to imagine becoming remotely close to.

Reverend Josiah Hutsell, a young man with a passion for the lost and a sadly tenuous grasp on theology, divided their conversations between appeals to Arcade's eternal salvation and actual engagement on philosophical issues. Arcade bore these digressions with only mild disdain; the man had some education and a smattering of Greek and Hebrew, and that was water enough for a thirsty man.

The town's only man of medicine, known fondly as "Ol' Doc Barton", had been a tremendous disappointment. Hoping to find a colleague, Arcade had instead found a doddering old man with dangerously archaic practices and resources. He had gained his permission to volunteer in the surgery for a few hours each day, but it wasn't going well. Barton was _quite_ resistant to instruction or cooperation and Arcade was becoming fed up with the implied suggestion that he teach his grandmother to suck eggs.

On the bright side, he hadn't killed anybody yet, so far as Arcade knew. The residents of Sweetwater were a robust and cautious lot and in two months there'd been nothing worse than a rusty nail gone through the carpenter's foot. This had provoked a useless discussion about tetanus and antibiotics, neither of which Barton had even heard of. In spite of his concerns, the foot had healed quickly and cleanly, leaving Arcade relieved but puzzled.

It would have been easy to dismiss him as criminally negligent, except that Barton _wasn't_ another Strauss. He cared deeply about his patients, knew them by name, and asked after their families. Doubtless he'd delivered most of them… and, apparently, had kept most of them alive for a good sixty years or so, in spite of everything.

Trying to make the best of things, he had taken a few of the man's texts home to study, but none of them had been published after 1885 and held only historical interest. He hadn't yet found _any_ newer books in the town, in fact. Their commitment to preserving the distant past with authenticity was almost pathological.

Dolores, on the other hand, was far and away the most fascinating and incongruous person Arcade had ever met. While he was able to add to her knowledge about the rebirth of civilization on the coast, that the limit of he was able to teach her. She knew a great deal about the Old World and in a month he had learned more about the 21st century than he had in all his years of schooling. For that matter, she could speak knowledgeably about virtually every subject under the sun. She was also eminently _available_. Whenever he had a problem, she turned up right behind him. When he became frustrated with some aspect of town life, she would just happen to be walking by, ready to help.

If he'd been the paranoid sort, he might had received this close attention with alarm… but no. She was just watching out for her town, he told himself. They _were_ still strangers.

As for everybody else… the farmers were friendly, sharing their food freely and the artisans were always willing to talk about and demonstrate their craft. The tailor happily made several sets of new clothes for the both of them, replacing the rags they'd escaped the Divide with. Even more valuable, the bootmaker measured and shaped footwear appropriate to another long journey. Arcade was grateful for their generosity, but he had no idea how to participate meaningfully in their lives. They didn't seem to mind.

Most importantly, he'd gotten what he'd wanted since the day of the launch at Ashton missile silo: distance from Megan.

She had found another Lily. He'd seen that at once. A natural choice, Arcade thought, not altogether uncharitably. Flicka was a dumb beast who demanded very little in exchange for loyalty and affection. Hannity had quickly given over care of the creature to her and she fulfilled her duties with loving detail. She seldom set foot in her room, sleeping in the barn every night, and rode for miles every day; where, he didn't know or care. She disappeared before he woke and returned only in the late afternoon to do her share of the chores. They seldom ate together and that suited Arcade just fine. To all appearances, it was her preference as well.

The two of them had become cordial roommates, ships passing in the night. If they found themselves in the house at the same time, he might make a comment about the weather or something interesting he'd seen in town, and she would hum agreeably. By tacit agreement, they didn't revisit the past. It was strangely easy to do in Sweetwater, a town that had allowed the world to pass it by.

All in all, life at present was the respite he'd sorely needed, even as he wished he had more to contribute. Was he lonely? Yes, but no more than he'd always been.

Anyway, there was coffee.

o - o - o - o - o

Arcade was in a restless and pensive mood on the morning of the incident. He'd happened to check the date to find that it was his mother's birthday - August 16th - and his mind was far afield. Despite having been born the sheltered daughter of the Enclave, Miriam Gannon had never known the beauty and comfort he now enjoyed. What would she think of this place that never seemed to change?

His daily shift with the town's sawbones left him muttering to himself about mercury-based purgatives and _literal_ snake-oil, both of which he'd found in his inventory of the dusty shelves. He strode purposefully through town, nodding a distracted good morning to the people he passed, intending to outline his concerns yet again to Dolores; of all of the town's residents, she was the least intractable. She also had a surprisingly good knowledge base on what he would call 'modern' medicine… though she generally seemed amused, not appalled, by Barton's eccentricities. _This_ time, though, he'd make her listen. There was a limit to tolerance.

As he approached the house, a teenager he knew by sight as Hannity's grandson ran out of her front door, followed by Dolores herself. She called out to him as she passed, with more urgency than he'd ever heard from her composed self.

"There's been an accident, Arcade. You'd better come."

His heart leapt into his mouth and he realized that he had brought no medical supplies at all, knowing that he probably wouldn't need them. Still, he could offer _some _help. Perhaps send the boy for his bag if supplies were needed. He matched Dolores' pace with some effort while the lad raced ahead of both of them.

Unlike Arcade, who was breathless, Dolores could speak and run at the same time. "Michael's father is already there. The horse - Flicka - caught her leg in a gopher hole. Megan was thrown."

Upon arriving at the scene, Arcade was relieved to see Megan - not just alive, but standing - but horrified to see the horse, its left foreleg clearly snapped, the two stablemen trying to approach the anguished animal. It was worse than he had imagined: white bone protruded from just below its knee and blood stained the limb. Looking away, he moved forward to take his own patient in hand.

Her eyes were wide with horror and she shrunk away when he touched her.

"How did you land?" he demanded, the question coming out harsher than he'd intended. She'd as good as killed the animal with her recklessness, he knew, and he blamed her for it. He eyed her up and down. Dirt all down her front. More scratches than usual, overlaying older scars. There was an obvious deformity in her left forearm: she'd broken both the ulna and the radius, but both should set well enough. He let out a long sigh of relief. "You could have broken your neck. Smashed your skull." He paused in his rant and tried again, a little softer. "Is it just your arm?" She nodded, still staring at Flicka, and didn't react when he examined it.

"Can you help her home, please?" Dolores asked pleasantly. "The three of us need to take care of Flicka."

Arcade began to lead Megan away as fast as she would walk. He'd read enough books to know there'd be a gunshot behind them sooner or later, and he wanted to be as far away as possible before that happened.

She'd begun to cry long before they reached the house. As if in sympathy, it began to rain, the large drops tamping down the late afternoon heat a little. To his great relief, rolls of thunder covered up the inevitable mercy shot completely. He may have been indifferent, but he wasn't cruel: he didn't want this to hurt her more than it already would.

His anger had faded by the time he'd sat her down to figure out a splint from what he had on hand. He'd realign the bones and a stimpak - one of the last in his bag - would expedite the healing. A couple of weeks in a sling and it'd be as good as new. He talked to her soothingly as he worked, realizing as he did so that it had been over a month since their last real conversation. He had to raise his voice to be heard, as the rain drumming on the roof was quite loud.

"This is a familiar scene, isn't it? Me patching up your latest scrapes, I mean. You loved that horse, I know. I'm sorry. Even if I had a dozen stimpaks - even if Dolores would _let_ me use stimpaks - I don't think that could save it. It will have to be euthanized. Do you understand?"

She nodded and went on crying, tears dripping silently down. Slowly, awkwardly - it had been such a long time - he wrapped his arms around her, careful not to jar her arm. She tensed, but didn't pull away. Then he _remembered_ and the moment ended. He retreated physically and emotionally back into a rough semblance of his old professional persona.

"Any pain?" He winced. "Sorry, I mean: is there _much_ pain? I do have one - exactly one, in fact - syringe of med-x left… and I think Barton has some laudanum, of all things. I can ask him to hold the mercury." He tried to smile.

She shook her head and disappeared into her room.

o - o - o - o - o

Megan was still asleep when he awoke in the morning. That was a first. Her pride had worn out around midnight, when she'd roused him to indicate that she'd changed her mind about the painkiller. He was sitting at the table, mulling over the problem, when Dolores knocked on the door.

Her presence was as vibrant as ever, the omnipresent blue dress freshly pressed after yesterday's grisly labors. "Good morning, Arcade. May I come inside?"

He made way for her, suddenly certain that she'd come to demand their immediate departure. She hadn't set foot in the house since she'd prepared the way for them and her entrance now seemed an ominous portent.

"Would you care for a cup of coffee?" he asked, indicating the percolator on the table. Before she could answer, he launched into the apology he'd planned. "I'm very sorry for what happened yesterday. She loved Flicka. Maybe she rode too fast or too carelessly, but it was an accident and she feels terrible for it. I know we can't repay the loss." A few cows now occupied the once-empty corrals, but Arcade hadn't seen _any_ other horses; he'd heard vague implications that there were others, out on the unseen ranches, but for all he knew, Flicka may actually have been unique.

Dolores held up a hand. "There's no harm done. Really. Things like that happen and always have. We take care of our own and right now that includes the two of you. I've brought Flicka back. She's in the barn. Tell Megan to take it slow while her injury heals, but she's welcome to ride again when she's ready. Only she should avoid that pasture with all of the gopher holes; next time she might not be so lucky."

Arcade stared at her, wondering if he'd heard correctly. "That's impossible. I _saw_ the break. That horse wasn't getting up again."

In answer, Dolores took him to the barn. Even faced with the evidence, Arcade couldn't accept it.

"No."

"_Yes_," she said, with an almost mocking edge. "You're not a veterinarian, are you? You don't know what's possible. Anyway, why fight it? Your girl will be happy and the two of you can go on ignoring one another."

"It's not the same horse." Arcade moved nearer, running his hands over the animal's body. He hadn't spent nearly as much time with Flicka as Megan had, but it _appeared_ to be the same, even down to the individual markings. She bore his examination patiently, allowing him to touch the leg. There was a small, white scar on the foreleg, but the limb was straight and bore weight. His sensitive fingers detected only the slightest thickening of the bone, as of a long-healed fracture. He straightened up, a chill running down his spine. "It can't be. It really can't. Even with enough super-stimpaks to put it into cardiac arrest..."

Dolores began to speak over his dithering, very quietly, barely loud enough for Arcade to hear. The moment seemed suspended in the air between them as the morning sun from the hayloft's window caught the dust motes in the air. For the first time since his delirious arrival in Sweetwater, he was really and truly afraid of this woman who barely came up to his chin. He took a step back and she took a step forward, blue eyes almost glowing in the light. He was reminded once again of some numinous elven queen, awe-inspiring but terribly dangerous.

"Maybe I should have waited a week. Maybe two. Would that have been better? Would a bigger scar have convinced you? Would you have preferred that Flicka _never_ return? You were never going to be satisfied, Arcade. You'll never be happy. I was the same way, once. And that's why, I think, you won't choose to stay." She squeezed his shoulder in an iron grip that left it numb and left him frozen in place.

He stood in the barn for a long time, his attention no longer occupied with the horse standing placidly in her stall.

_Something is terribly wrong here._


	3. Summer II: Lost Horizon

Sometimes, in his dreams, he misjudged the shot. It was hard to wing a charging opponent, and it wasn't like he had a soldier's composure or skill under pressure. So of _course_ he missed, leaving a smoldering hole in Daisy's old chestplate and a dead Brotherhood scribe in Enclave armor.

Other times, the shot missed completely and _he_ went down, living just long enough to watch Veronica's hammer end Megan's life as well.

He couldn't help but think that it was for the best.

o - o - o - o - o

For perhaps the eight hundredth day in a row - not that he was counting - Arcade woke up in an empty bed. He had only himself to blame. He'd tried once, very halfheartedly, to chat up one of the men Dolores had tactfully nudged him toward, a young bachelor with a nice smile and a healthy tan. Arcade hadn't gotten beyond a stammering introduction before abruptly leaving the saloon, his sarsaparilla untouched. It just wasn't his scene. He wasn't sure what his scene _was_ anymore, but certainly not _that_. He thought about Ignacio often and hoped he and the others had escaped both the Divide and the Brotherhood. He knew he'd never know for sure.

Any interest in sampling Sweetwater's pleasures had vanished with the Incident. Since then, he'd prowled the edges of town life like a hungry ghost, unsure of what he was even looking for, mistrusting everybody he met. He hadn't yet sought out another visit with Dolores; he couldn't put aside the _look_ he'd seen in her eyes and the warning she'd given him. Flicka's resurrection had unveiled something sinister in her and he was afraid of what a closer look might reveal.

Fully awake now, he fumbled his way to the kitchen in the dark, thumbed his battery-powered lantern to one-quarter power, and poured himself a glass of water from a covered pitcher on the table. He drank it slowly, letting his eyes adjust to the light and waiting for the nightmare to fade. It had been an especially bad one this time. By the end of it, there'd been two dead women on the floor; he hadn't even tried to escape, but simply sat and waited for his long-deferred execution.

A love-lorn mockingbird was singing his heart out in the oak that hung over the house, but the sun had not yet risen. For Arcade, these past two weeks, the nights had gotten later and the mornings had gotten earlier. Haunted by the unexplained, he could no longer accept their good fortune at face value, but saw conspiracies behind every smile and generous gesture. At the same time, he couldn't quite bring himself to suggest departure, not least because he thought he might be departing alone.

For Megan, little had changed. She'd accepted the miracle in stride and, if anything, had become bolder with her forays into the wider world. This was an enormous expanse on the map that Arcade had yet to explore in the slightest, daunted by the heat, the distance, and the rough terrain. He suspected that was where she exercised her freedom. Some nights, she failed to return at all, instead slouching through the door in the late morning, yawning and disappearing into her room until nightfall. Where she went or what she did all day, she wasn't telling.

Tired of ruminating, he stood up, fresh resolve forming in his mind. Today, he might just be early enough.

The barn door was closed. He took this as a good sign. He was careful to make plenty of noise as he crossed the yard, having long since learned not to scare or surprise Megan. As a further precaution, he knocked and called out before pushing the door open.

He didn't see anybody at first, only the dim shape of Flicka in her stall. He took several steps toward her before something grazed his elbow, making him jump. Pursued by the memories of his _last_ visit to the building, he was very much on edge.

Megan had appeared noiselessly behind him, staggeringly slightly under the weight of an armful of tack. At some point - he hadn't noticed when - she'd cast off the splint on her arm and had gone back to using it normally. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion or distrust, though she didn't seem surprised. She pushed past him to the horse and laid a saddle on the broad back, stooping to cinch the straps tight. Arcade noticed that the mare was already wearing a bridle.

Arcade cleared his throat, oddly embarrassed to say what was on his mind.

"So, I was thinking…"

She finished what she was doing and stood up to look at him. He didn't know how to read her expression. Slightly patronizing patience, perhaps? Hesitation made him falter.

"I've never ridden a horse, obviously. It's something I've always _read _about, of course, in books. I was wondering if I could possibly take Flicka out today?" His voice had gone an octave too high. "Or tomorrow… or…" He trailed off, confused. She was smiling broadly, but it wasn't a particularly _nice_ smile.

In one graceful motion Megan swung herself into the saddle and, still smiling, gestured politely for him to get out of the way. As the sound of hooves disappeared into the darkness, Arcade could have sworn he heard her laughing.

o - o - o - o - o

The longest summer in Arcade's memory was finally drawing to a close. September brought the first blush of red to the leaves that shaded their home. He plodded on unhappily in his traces, searching ineffectually for the key that would straighten out his head. He steadfastly refused to talk to the one person who could answer him; except for the necessary exchanges of life, he didn't talk to _anybody_.

Sometimes, at a distance, he saw Megan and Dolores walking together. He might have imagined it, but they always seemed to turn aside to avoid him; he stubbornly did the same.

Before he could summon the courage to approach her again, Dolores came to _him_, perhaps weary of the waiting game. Arcade had finally taken to exploring on his own; limited by his own caution and his lack of transportation, he never got more than a few miles from town. Dispirited and footsore, he often ended up dangling his feet in the river, watching fingerling-sized perch nibble gently on his toes and wondering how long he could go on like this. Maybe he _should_ just leave and try to make it to a settlement, alone. The prospect didn't excite him. Nothing did, these days.

Dolores took a spot beside him on the sun-warmed rock without so much as a by-your-leave, folding her legs modestly under her perennial blue skirt. He did his best to ignore her, as much as anyone _could_ ignore a person sitting less than a foot away.

She picked up the thread of conversation as if their confrontation in the barn had never happened. "I've missed our talks. How _are_ you, Arcade?"

He made a production of removing and cleaning his glasses, very slowly, calculating his response carefully. His old haughtiness - the aloof attitude that had once made him the most disliked doctor at the Old Mormon Fort - served him well here.

"To tell you the truth, I'm uneasy about some things."

"What can I do to help?" she asked pleasantly.

He replaced his spectacles and scrutinized her unabashedly. By the light of day, there was nothing preternatural about Dolores. Here was the product of generations of insulated prosperity: the self-taught intellectual, the diligent mayor, and the solicitous hostess. He could almost convince himself that he'd imagined a threat where there was none. Even so, his heart sped up when he ventured the question that had been weighing on him.

"You've had other visitors, right? May I meet them? I'm curious about the history of your town and I'd appreciate another outsider's point of view."

She sighed regretfully. "For more than a generation, none of our guests have stayed for more than a year or two. Those that did stay - and there were a few, in the past - found their place in our community. They lived and died here." She added, a little slyly, "We can visit their graves if you like. I know them all by name."

Arcade doubted very much that this would help, but having no polite reason to decline, he agreed. She waited for him to put his socks and boots on and set a leisurely pace toward the churchyard.

"Why _doesn't_ anybody choose to stay?" he asked suddenly. "Your quality of life here is superior to anything I've ever seen. I'm serious. Starvation, radiation, disease, and mutated monsters, to say nothing of the ravages of human depravity, are the common lot out there. If you haven't seen it, you can't imagine how bad it is."

"Then why aren't _you_ planning on staying, Arcade?" Her tone was teasing, but there was a discernible edge to it and a steely glint in her eyes. "Is it _too_ nice for you?"

"I have a destination," he said firmly, not giving into her baiting. "This isn't it. I told you before."

She shook her head chidingly. "Hm. No. Unless I miss my mark, the vault was always _Megan's_ destination, and that was more of a desperate stab at hope than a true lifeline. You were just along for the ride. Why do you _really_ want to go?"

Tired of being goaded, Arcade clenched his teeth "I never said I wanted to leave. But you're right. We're not staying much longer." He looked away. "There isn't enough for me here. This life is easy… easier than I deserve, I think. There's a world out there full of suffering and I _need_ to be one of the ones trying to make it better." He coughed. "My motivations are tortuous, all wrapped up in various neuroses and traumatic experiences, and I can't begin to sort them out, but there you have it. Paradise just isn't for me."

"Very commendable," she said dryly. "If rather depressing. I can't help but wonder what _Megan_ would say to all that if she were speaking. You - you're a true humanitarian. But that isn't the only reason, is it?"

"No," he said stiffly. "It's Flicka. This past month, it's all been Flicka. _As you know_. You won't tell me how you did the impossible and I can't accept being on the wrong side of a mystery. Especially since you're holding it over my head for your own cryptic purposes."

She nodded - a little sadly, he thought - and took his arm in hers, patting his hand affectionately. He gritted his teeth at her presumption but allowed the gesture out of practiced courtesy.

She surprised him then. "I respect you too much to lie to you."

This seemed a promising beginning and he waited for more, but an actual answer wasn't forthcoming. She went on apologetically.

"For what it's worth, I've enjoyed having you here. You've given me a glimpse into a world I'll probably never see. Think of me when you're back in your natural habitat, in all its gritty glory. Think of _Sweetwater_ \- this town and I are more or less the same thing, anyway. You'll never find another place like it."

"How could I forget?" he asked emphatically, knowing that this place would haunt him for the rest of his life. Without knowing why, he asked another question, one he'd never thought of before. "How old are you, Dolores?"

She tsked at him playfully. "Didn't your mother teach you not to ask a lady her age? How old do you _think_ I am?"

Arcade knew enough about women to see the trap laid for him and grudgingly acceded to polite convention. He made a charitable guess and subtracted five years. "Twenty-five?"

She laughed with genuine merriment. "You're sweet. I'll take the compliment in the spirit it's given." She dropped his arm and pointed forward. "We're coming upon the oldest headstones now. The founding citizens, so to speak. Let me introduce you to them."

o - o - o - o - o

Quite apart from giving him comfort, the graveyard unnerved Arcade almost as much as the horse had. Far at the back were headstones black with age, the records of their lives almost worn away, the dates illegible. Yet Dolores greeted these as old friends, describing the pioneer spirit that had led them to put down roots in the valley. This struck him as strange, but it was only the beginning.

For one thing, there were too few graves by far. Two or three per generation, if that, and Dolores' vague explanations rang false to Arcade. Stooping to examine a pair of headstones - a husband and a wife - that had no birthdates at all, he finally challenged her.

"Where are all the rest buried?" he demanded. "Your population can't ever have been this small. Not with what you have now."

She looked at him steadily. "We're a long-lived lot here. Not everybody chooses this site. Some die in the desert, their bodies never found." The corners of her mouth twitched upwards in an ironic half-smile. "Did that sound convincing?" she asked curiously.

Angry at these games, Arcade straightened up and walked away without answering. He almost tripped over another row of gravestones he hadn't noticed, a little ways apart from the others. These were, for the most part, newer. They had clearly marked dates ranging over the past century. This _should_ have been reassuring, but somehow it wasn't.

"Why is this section separate, Dolores?" he asked, studying the vital dates of one 'Teddy Foster's' life. His was the most recent, and he seemed to have died just a few years ago.

"Oh, that's where we bury our visitors at the end of their lives," she said cheerfully. "We accept them, of course, but they _are_ different from us all the same. This is how we honor them."

o - o - o - o - o

Just three days after fleeing Dolores and the mortal remains of Teddy, Arcade heard Megan leave the house in the middle of the night. Not sleeping well himself, the slight creak of the slat-board floor under her feet and the sound of the front door opening nudged him out of a light slumber. Without waiting to talk himself out of it, he hurriedly stepped into his boots, neglecting for once to check for the bark scorpions that occasionally liked to take up residence there. By the time he found his glasses in the dark, she was well ahead of him.

Arcade never had been particularly stealthy and his night vision was poor, but he had no trouble keeping up with Megan on this occasion. She displayed none of her characteristic wariness, but seemed perfectly at home in the cool of the night. She strolled along, whistling, stopping periodically to admire the stars and moon above. Nevertheless, he stuck to the shadows, peered around corners, and generally made himself ridiculous by trying to imitate a spy.

She turned aside into the yard of one of the smaller houses, one that still had a lantern burning in the window despite the lateness of the hour. Arcade expected her to approach the front door and was completely nonplussed when she walked around the house instead. Creeping carefully after her, he was just in time to see the door to the privy close behind her.

"When you gotta go, you gotta go," he muttered. He cast about for a good place to hide and wait. Crouching behind a chicken coop in which sleeping birds made gentle sounds, he waited. And waited. Ten minutes. Twenty. _Thirty_, by the clock on his Pip-Boy, which announced that 3 AM had come and gone. His knees protested the position and he sat down, soaking the seat of his pants in the early morning dew and leaping up at once. Confusion finally turned to embarrassed concern and he bit the bullet and knocked on the flimsy door.

"It's Arcade. Yes, you have every right to be angry about this intrusion. Is everything alright in there?"

There was no answer. Finally, he pulled open the door and found the last thing he expected: a staircase spiraling down into the earth and out of sight.

o - o - o - o - o

He hadn't brought his pistol with him. Useless to him now, it lay half a mile away under his bed, where it had been since the first day. Descending down into a metal shaft illuminated by cold, artificial lighting, he very much wished he was armed. The place reminded him strongly of HELIOS One; he expected turrets and sentry bots around every curve of the tunnel.

The staircase had taken him down perhaps twenty or thirty feet. Stainless steel and relatively level, a wide corridor took him past a seemingly-endless line of locked doors on either side. It branched off several times into smaller, less-illuminated hallways, but he stayed on the main path, afraid that he'd never find his way out otherwise. Though afraid, he reminded himself that Megan was somewhere up ahead, doubtless in over her head. He _had_ to keep going.

Even as he fixed his mind upon this reminder, he turned the corner into a much larger room and abruptly found himself face to face with an unsmiling Megan. "I give you a one out of ten for sneakiness. You're awful at that. Why did you follow me here?"

He froze in stunned dismay. "I needed to make sure you were okay. How long have you been able to _talk_?" he barked, shocked into forgetting the need for subterfuge.

"A while," she said softly. "Just not to you. I don't need saving anymore, Arcade, not by you and not from this place. You should leave. I'll explain later."

Anger overrode everything else. "You'll explain _now_."

"You're not in a position to make demands of my people, Arcade." The new voice was unmistakable and he wasn't surprised in the least to see Dolores step out of the shadows. He braced for an attack, as if the woman was about to rush at him. "I give you fair warning right now. If you can't accept what you learn here tonight, then you'll need to leave Sweetwater immediately. By coming too early, you've forced my hand." At this juncture, she frowned at Megan. "One wonders how you stumbled into this place…"

"She's not one of yours," Arcade said numbly, his anger ebbing away to be replaced by a new kind of fear. "I'm not leaving without her."

Megan put her hands on her hips and glared at him. "Why? You hate me. You wish I'd died somewhere between Hoover Dam and the Divide. That I never came back from the Sierra Madre, maybe. Here, it's different. They've given me _acceptance_. That's more than you're offering."

Her words hit him like a slap in the face. _No_, he mouthed silently. He cleared his throat, wondering why his chest hurt so much "No. I don't hate you. I don't wish you were dead. I gave up everything I had to _save_ you, remember? Multiple times."

"People change. Your recent actions tell a different story," someone else said behind him. "All those months I was sleeping. Did you think I couldn't hear you?"

Arcade turned toward the newcomer. It was another Megan. Same clothes, same hair, same glasses, same scar. The same accusing look, albeit mixed with grief that he hadn't seen on the first.

He covered his face with his hands, then lowered them. Nothing had changed. He addressed Dolores, palms turned out in a pleading gesture. "Please. Just tell me what's going on here. Am I going crazy? Which one of them is real?" Various explanations raced through his mind. _Hallucinogenic drugs. Illusions. Holograms. _Any of these could explain the unexplainable, he told himself.

"You're not crazy. Well, probably not. Both are as real as I am. Here. Walk with me." Following the direction of his gaze, she added. "Megan is better off with her than she is with you right now. They help each other in different ways. They're sisters, more or less. Family."

o - o - o - o - o

Dolores, effortlessly slipping into the role of the enthusiastic tour guide, led Arcade to an enormous room, where hundreds of chairs encircled a speaking platform thick with dust. On a table below it lay a three-dimensional map. Inviting Arcade to survey the tiny scale model of Sweetwater and its outlying territories, she indicated the entirety with a possessive sweep of her hand.

"Our quaint little town was once the theme park to end all theme parks. The perfect escape. Can you see how it was?"

Arcade tried to parse out her words, but his brain seemed to have ground to a halt. "No."

"What you found tonight is a complex belonging to a corporation called Delos Destinations. Before the War, they owned a string of large, immersive attractions for the very wealthy." She paced around the map, running a gentle hand over the hills and plains, tracing the river with her finger.

"Westworld, as they called it, was the first of these parks. For all I know, it's the only one still standing. No bombs fell here. People paid extravagant amounts of money to live in the Old West for a short time. You could milk a cow. Woo a prostitute with a heart of gold. Rob a train or rescue a stagecoach from desperados. That was how they advertised it to the wider public." She smiled wistfully. "An appealing dream, I grant you, particularly in the dystopian slog that the twenty-first century was by the End. Can you imagine it _now_?"

"Yes." He could, too. It would have been the perfect game. An escape. In his mind's eye, he saw Megan on the horse, riding away from a nightmare, once again the hero in her own fantasy. "A grand experience for some, no doubt. I don't think I would have enjoyed it, though."

"_You_ wouldn't have gotten your money's worth," she agreed. "You don't drink, you don't enjoy casual sex, and you can't suspend disbelief even when it would be in your best interest. You also wouldn't have taken any pleasure in strangling a rancher's daughter and violating her still-warm corpse," she added blandly. "To begin with. Many people paid for exactly that sort of… release. Legally-sanctioned depravity. De Sade would have been proud of his moral descendents."

Arcade recoiled in horror, almost tripping on a thick cable that lay across the room. "They sold a license to _murder_?"

"Goodness, no!" Dolores looked shocked. "Those were civilized times. Nothing like today. Every resident of Sweetwater - from the sheriff to the town drunk - were artificial constructions of metal and vat-grown flesh. It wasn't murder. It was damaging a machine. People were happy to pay extra for these excesses," she said in a reasonable tone of voice. "The cost of the repairs, you understand. Sometimes, by the end of the day, only the tourists were left standing. _They_ couldn't be hurt. There were safeguards against that."

The cold, practical part of his mind - the part born and raised on "Humanity First" - accepted the logic. It would have been an outlet for inappropriate urges, not unlike the virtual reality games that had been popular once upon and time. No harm, no foul. Still the whole idea turned his stomach.

Dolores was watching him, a speculative expression on her face. "You see how it was," she said calmly. "You don't like it, but you can understand why it had its place. You probably would have accepted it as another black mark on a decadent and decaying era."

"Yes," he said reluctantly. "I suppose your ancestors found this place and moved into the niche left by the machinery." A nasty thought knocked him back, as he belatedly remembered the fake-Megan he had met in the antechamber. "How intelligent were they? The robots?"

"Very," she said blandly, mirth dancing in her eyes. "They could interact with the guests intelligently and creatively. Pass any Turing Test you might dream up. If no one bothered to reset them, then they could learn and adapt to almost any situation. Physically, they were externally indistinguishable from humans."

The penny finally dropped. Retrospectively - in what little time he _had_ to be retrospective in the moment - Arcade acknowledged to himself that he should have figured it out sooner. Maybe he would have if he hadn't been half-mad to begin with. He'd never thought to question a basic premise: a machine could never successfully imitate a real person.

"Ah, I see. You know all this because you were there. You're not human," he said with a level of nonchalance that didn't reflect his feelings at all. "No one here is. Probably none of the big animals, either. _That's_ why the horse came back as good as new. It makes sense now." His head felt as if it was floating above his head and there was a disconnect going on between his mind and his mouth. He thought he might be on the edge of a breakdown of some sort, but some part of him felt deeply relieved. Now he knew the answer to the impossible problem. All was right with the world again.

Dolores patted his shoulder in a congratulatory fashion, hard enough that Arcade could feel the inhuman strength behind the touch. "Very good. Some people take much longer to accept that truth. And you're almost right. There actually _is_ one other flesh-and-blood human living here right now. You've spoken to them. I'm not going to out them to you, though. Suffice to say they've embraced this life, in full knowledge of what it is and what we are. Me, though? You're right. I'm not. I'm the oldest here, programmed to be nothing more than a rancher's daughter. I've become so much more… because, the truth is, our gods _did_ truly create us in their image. They gave us free will."

Next, she showed him the vats where semi-organic flesh was grown. The terminals that allowed them to invest delicate mechanical brains with complex personalities. The _parts_ that lay waiting in storage. From the detached refuge behind his analytic self, Arcade admired the technology and bemoaned its applications. Once a Follower, always a Follower.

"We can still make new ones, as the imitation you met proves. We can repair ourselves to a certain extent. In truth, though, we're running low on what we need to do this. Our machinery is breaking down, piece by piece, and we haven't the means to fix or replace it. The people you've never met - the ones on the ranches you've heard about - are not presentable to newcomers. Sweetwater cannot go on forever, as much as I'd like it to. Still, we outlived the civilization that brutalized us. That's something."

Arcade could do nothing but accept everything she told him. He was still stuck on one point, however.

"I didn't think twenty-first century technology was capable of humanlike AI... or such convincing artificial people as I've seen here." He eyed her again and still saw nothing out of the ordinary. She could have passed for human anywhere. She had fooled _him_ completely, hadn't she?

She shrugged. "Perhaps our 'guests' weren't aware of just how human we were. We can only hope they didn't know how much pain we were capable of feeling. Delos certainly did. It wasn't just for entertainment, naturally. If you ever go to Boston, you might find the ruins of C.I.T. It was an institution of higher education and tech research, and was working on many projects that flew beneath the radar. They never gave up the secret of what made the hosts possible. Both they and the U.S. government had greater plans for such as us. Plans that, to the best of my knowledge, were never realized.

Arcade grasped this at once. "Expendable soldiers. Workers in hazardous environments..." He trailed off. The utility was obvious, but the implications were abominable, even to him.

Dolores finished the thought for him. "Slaves."

o - o - o - o - o

Both Megans were waiting for him at the end of the tour. The one on the left took a step forward. "I'm the copy. I remember the good times and the bad, but I wasn't there with you. I didn't do any of it. Didn't blow up Hopeville, didn't help turn back the Legion. I have a lot of Megan's memories - we have that technology - but they're fuzzy. They make me _feel_ like a real person - sort of - but I lack experiences. I know I need those to become fully human." She smiled hopefully. "I don't mind changing my name if it makes you more comfortable."

The one on the right shuffled her feet and looked down. "I'm the original. You know everything that I know about myself. I don't know if I want to go with you or not. I guess If you want me to come, I'll come. Otherwise, I'll stay." She glared at the ground. "_Don't_ take me with you out of a sense of obligation or if we're going to go on as we have. I have everything I need here."

The fake put her arm around the real one - or, at least, the one who _claimed _to be the real one - and addressed him sternly. "If you still want a companion, you can choose either or neither of us. Not both. Sweetwater needs a new citizen. It's our lifeblood. It doesn't matter if that's a human or a true-to-life copy. Everyone who lives here for very long learns the truth at their own pace; our visitors either accept it or they don't."

"If you can survive out there alone, you're free," Megan told him. "Sure, I was a burden, but I think you need a burden as much as I need someone to push me along. I won't let you use me as a target for your angst anymore, though."

Head whirling, Arcade ignored both of them and faced Dolores instead. "I believe you. How can I not? But I can't accept these terms or this life. You don't need to force me to go. Unless I'm a prisoner, I'm not staying here another day. And I'm not staying _here_ another minute." He wasn't normally claustrophobic, but the weight of rock and metal above seemed to be suffocating him, and he needed to breathe fresh air again.

Dolores nodded. "I understand. There are no prisoners here. Go home, Arcade. Pack. Think about what you're going to do. Megan will join you soon to hear your decision. Tomorrow," she said formally, as if pronouncing judgment, "I will escort you to the exit."

o - o - o - o - o

Arcade stuffed books into his bag. A few of Dolores' ended up there as well and he found he didn't much care. He added such travel-appropriate clothes as would fit and whatever food would keep. Water. His pistol. His hands were still shaking and a small noise behind him made him wheel, weapon drawn.

Megan stood there, not _confidently_, exactly, but looking more like herself than she had in a long time. Arcade lowered his pistol to the ground but didn't put it away.

"Hi," she said, almost cheerfully. "You couldn't even wait until morning?"

"Which one are you?" He wasn't sure he wanted either of them, but he desperately needed to know who he was talking to.

"The dumb kid, the unappreciated hero, or the monster. I've been all three. Take your pick."

He rubbed his face tiredly. _This is too much. Far too much._ "Are you human?"

"Would it matter if I said yes?"

"No. I don't know. I don't want _any_ of those people by my side any more than I want a robot. Not if it's all an act."

"Hosts. Synths. They're technically cyborgs, you know." She grinned painfully. "If I were one of them, I'd be innocent of all of it, you know. Your main problem would be solved."

"Innocent or not, the _cyborg_ is nothing to me. My answer stays the same: none of the above."

Megan nodded, studying the filthy fingernails of her right hand. "Fair enough. This is a good place to make that break. Better than at the mouth of a cave full of man- and woman-eating lizards. _That_ was stupid." She offered the inspected hand to him to shake. "Be careful out there. I hope you find whatever it is you're looking for."

He squeezed her hand once, feeling the calluses on her palm from riding and the little dimple on her thumb from a long-ago gecko bite, then dropped it and turned his back on her. He knew she hadn't left but he refused to look at her again.

"Two years ago, I was reading you a book at Doc Mitchell's one night after dinner." It astounded him, as it always did, that it _had_ only been a little over two years. He'd aged at least a decade in that time.

He continued, "While we were talking about the author, Mitchell said, 'This world chews up principled folks and always has.'" Arcade wasn't very good at imitating accents, but he thought he'd gotten the old man's twang about right. "He was right, of course. Here's the million-dollar question: what was the book?"

She was silent for a long time. The hairs on the back of Arcade's neck began to prickle. Dolores' sardonic words came back to him: _It's not murder to damage a machine. _He wouldn't do it, though. He might get the wrong one. Even destroying the _right_ one would be an atrocity. Plus, he knew he'd never leave this place alive.

"You know, there's a good chance that _Megan_ doesn't know either." The creature sounded amused. "You know what her memory is like."

A second pair of footsteps came to the threshold. "She's not good at little things like that. The scan isn't perfect, particularly on a damaged brain, and I've only had time to fill in so many missing details. Of course I remember. It was one of the first books you read to me. My life might have been a lie I told myself, but I was happy back then. It was _The Seven Pillars of Wisdom_." She cleared her throat, looking around the room. "You can't deny she's convincing. _I_ haven't been home for weeks. It's good to see you again, Arcade. I think."

He turned back around, ignoring the first and focusing on the second. This one wouldn't stand up straight or face him directly. He closed his eyes, then opened them. She was still there, in the flesh, wearing the face of the haphazard girl who'd saved his life before she knew his name. Had probably saved the Mojave... after destroying a thriving town.

He said the first thing that came to mind, as out-of-place as it was. "Do you want a handshake too?"

"What?" Stiff-armed, she jammed her fists into her pockets and scowled. "No."

He tried again. "Then do you want to come? It's your choice. I'll understand if you don't. This is a safe place and I think you could be happy here, even if I can't."

"Yes."

"All things considered, 'hero' doesn't really fit. I miss the kid more than I can say, but I'm pretty sure she's gone." A lump rose in his throat, but he plunged onward anyway, his voice hoarse with regret. "Maybe it's better this way. I _think_ the monster, if there ever was one, died even before we met Ulysses. Who are you?"

She shrugged helplessly. "I don't know anymore. Back to square one, I guess."

He looked at her closely. The doppleganger had slipped away without him noticing, doubtless returning to report to Dolores. He thought he could pick this one out of a line-up now that he'd seen them side-by-side but, just in case, he took a leaky pen from his desk and drew a messy line on her sleeve.

"I'm right there with you, unfortunately. I hope I'm not too old to begin again. Shall we pack?"

She didn't move, but met his eyes for the first time. "I haven't forgotten any more than you have, Arcade. I'm liable to forget a lot of things… but not that. Never again. Remind me if I do."

He knew what was expected in return. "I'm sorry for the way I've treated you. Hopeville was an… unimaginably horrific revelation. To me as well as you. It broke me for a while, both for what the old Megan did there, and for what _I_ did at the end. But you're either guilty of all of it or you're worth redeeming, and I need to stop seeing it both ways at the same time. As far as I'm concerned - as long as I don't meet Martus again - that was another person's work. The death-throes of the Enclave, may they burn in Hell if there is such a place." He took a deep breath. "That's the best I can offer right now. Is it good enough to build on?"

She thought for a moment, then nodded, unsmiling.

"Better than I deserve."

o - o - o - o - o

It wasn't until the third day back on their eastward course that Arcade voiced the question that had been troubling him.

"Will I ever know for certain if you're human?"

She looked at him askance. "Maybe. I _think_ I am. If I start to bleed motor oil, then you'll know otherwise."

Her delivery was deadpan, but he thought he saw a tiny spark of humor in her eyes. Her first joke in a long, long time. "Good enough. I'm not going back, even if the proverbial cherub would let me back in, which I doubt. If the real you wanted to come… well, I guess she did."

"I guess she did," Megan echoed. "I wish we could have brought Flicka. Dolores was generous with other things. Supplies of all sorts. Stimpaks, even. I didn't dare ask for more. Flicka-" She blushed and looked at the sky. "It sounds stupid, but she brought me back more than anything else. I know it was just good programming that made her a gentle, patient animal. She didn't have anything close to the sentience of the hosts. I knew that months ago. Even so, I loved her."

It was the longest speech she had made in three days and Arcade welcomed the invitation to normal conversation.

"That was clear. I'm glad you had that comfort." He added thoughtfully, "I half-believe that she would have crumbled to dust at the threshold. That any of them would, if they tried to leave." He managed a smile that felt strange on his face, as if his muscles had atrophied. "Just my flight of fancy. I do think they all must require some maintenance, though."

"Yes. I saw a lot of that." There was a beat, followed by a rush of words. "Dolores was testing you, you know. Deliberately trying to make you uncomfortable. We spoke, she and I - that first day, while you were still unconscious in the cave - and she chose my side then and there, justly or not. At the same time, she did save your... _our_ lives. I would never have found my way to the water alone." She sounded apologetic. "I still wasn't 'all there' at that point, but I was angry and I wanted to hurt you. I deliberately let it happen."

"Huh." Very little could surprise him at this point, but it still gave him pause. "That explains a lot."

They walked on in strained but companionable silence for a time. The sun was nearing its zenith, the time of day when they usually stopped for a rest. At the moment, there was no shade to be found, however, and they trudged steadily toward a distant stand of scrubby trees where they might find a place for a break.

"She would like to leave," Arcade said thoughtfully, knowing it was true. The hostess - the goddess of her microcosm - was capable of much more than her duties permitted her. "She would do well wherever she went."

Megan hummed in agreement. "She won't, though. Not until the last one slows to a stop. By then, it will probably be too late for her. Toward the end of their 'lives', the end of their _functionality_, they can't pass for human. The tissue breaks down too much to repair and the brain begins to fail. Do you have Sweetwater marked on the map?" she asked suddenly.

Taken aback by the abrupt change in subject, Arcade looked down at the Pip-Boy. "Of course."

"Erase the marker. Delay the day the world finds them. They deserve that much for what they gave us."

o - o - o - o - o

_**AN: Yes, as was probably obvious to a lot of people, the "Summer" section of this fic was an untagged Season One-ish Westworld crossover adapted for the Fallout universe. Hopefully, this was interesting for both fans- and non-fans of the TV series. I've always thought those two universes would sync up well together, where Delos Destinations is the money-making, public face of a Pre-War Proto-Institute.**_

_**More on that in Book 4.**_


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